Black Ash
by tigerpawpad
Summary: Post-Riechenbach. John/Sherlock. A work in progress. John finds ways to cope after Sherlock's fall. That is, until one day John's tea and toast is disrupted by the past he's trying to forget...
1. Chapter 1

John looked into Mrs. Hudson's doe-like face as she rested her chin on her elegant, wrinkled hand. In her other rather unsteady grip a tea cup, half filled with strong black tea cooled as she forgot to drink it, looking around the cluttered living room as if searching for a purpose, "I suppose...we should pack up some of these things," she spoke softly, focused now on the human skull on the fire place mantle.

"I don't think I could, Mrs. Hudson." John spoke frankly, as he had been lately. He couldn't remember a time he felt his throat so raw and his thoughts so alien to conversing or when tea had tasted so bitter.

"But surely," Mrs. Hudson studied John's face in the flickering fire light, noticing how furrowed his brow was, always lips pressed tightly together and jaw thick with concentration, "you wouldn't want his things around with a lady coming over?" She raised her voice slightly at the end, attempting to disguise her good advice.

"Mariel is a friend, and this is my home now. I wish it to remain as it is."

Mrs. Hudson sighed, deeply and loudly, and continued without adherence to John's uncomfortable shifting since this subject of talk.

"I just thought you two get along so well and, I haven't seen you out and about so much, with her being such a pretty, _nice_ girl and all, I just thought it would be nice to set aside some of the more..." Mrs. Hudson stopped at the grief unwillingly etching itself deeper into John's lines. "I'm sorry, John, I know its so hard. But perhaps it would be easier to move on if his things weren't lying all about." She surveyed the room again, the violin and bow resting neatly on the desk between papers and scattered books filled with dust, the smiley face was still on the wall and the gun shot holes still gaping open. The floral wall paper had begun to peel from the corners, but even Mrs. Hudson didn't notice because of the intricate silver webs strung from the wall to the ceiling.

"Thank you, for the tea, Mrs. Hudson," John broke from his internal dilemma and met Mrs. Hudson's worried eyes, "and thank you for your company." Mrs. Hudson nodded and cleared the saucers and cups into the kitchen. When John comfortably heard her rustling in the kitchen he breathed a long, laborious breath, knotting his knuckles into his sore leg. Next to the overstuffed armchair rested his cane, the same one he put away in his closet when he met Sherlock, the world's only consulting detective.

"Do you need anything else tonight, love?" Mrs. Hudson paused in the doorway.

"No, thank you, I'll be alright tonight." John sat still in his chair, not being able to bear more eyes heavy with pity. "Good night, Mrs. Hudson"

"Good night, dear."

John waited until the house was silent. The fire crackled drowsily in the fireplace, happy for the moment with the bits of wood to chew on. John stiffly lifted himself out of the armchair and hobbled to the bookshelf. In a hollowed out novel (that John discovered Sherlock stashed his cigarettes long ago), John kept a small clear bottle of honey scented, amber tinted alcohol. He poured a fair amount into his tea cup and hid it back on the dusty shelf. He returned to the armchair, sipping the strong amnesia as the fire slowly snuffed itself out in ash.


	2. Chapter 2

"Such lovely weather today, isn't it John?" Mariel's sweet voice brought John back to the dappled path littered with crunchy yellow leaves beneath a light gray sky. She was admiring the way the withered leaves shook in the light breeze. John couldn't help but notice how soft her profile was in the waning light; it washed away the years of long hours at the bedside of the diseased and injured. The yellow tendrils of light through the trees brought out the autumn tones on her hair as thin curls escaped their pins and caressed her neck. John felt a deep throb from the bottom of his stomach, where he stuffed the sadness he knew he would always carry. An inescapable burden, loving someone irreplaceable.

"Yes, it's quite lovely." John echoed, pushing the memories back to the dark.

"I suppose we should head back soon, it's almost time for tea. Oh, but we are almost to the creek! I must show you." Mariel looped her arm through John's and gently pulled him forward. His leg was always a bother but the fresh air did more for his spirits than the old limp.

"This is a favorite spot of mine, from when I was young. My younger brother and I used to play here." She smiled, lost in happy moments.

"I didn't know you had a brother."

"He's never come up! And you've never asked."

"Well I should like to meet him, sometime." John said as he lowered himself onto a near by bench.

"Why?" She asked playfully, following him.

"You met my sister Harry, why shouldn't I meet your brother?"

"That was different. She's worried about you." Mariel said knowingly.

"She really shouldn't, not while you are around." Mariel blushed and slipped her hand into his, "I think it's nice. Having a sibling that cares, that is."

"I hope we won't be late, for Mrs. Hudson's sake."

John chuckled, "I think she'll handle it alright if we are a little late."

"Mr. Watson." A curvy young brunette in a slimming black dress suddenly turned up on the sidewalk. Behind her a shiny black car idled. A tall man in a suit got out the passenger side and opened the back door.

"Oh, no, really I am already la-" John got out before he was pushed into the backseat.

"We'll return him shortly." The lady addressed Mariel's concern before she slipped in after John. The suit shut the door and got into the front. The car revved off into traffic, leaving Mariel on the street alone as the night reached closer, bringing the cold air that seeped through her wool peacoat and chilled her bones. She wrapped her scarf tighter and stuffed her hands in her pocket as she walked back to 221B, alone.


	3. Chapter 3

"Mycroft!" John commanded as he strutted into the warm sitting room.

"John, please, sit." Mycroft motioned to the armchair opposite of his. John reluctantly sat down, noting how comfy the chair looked and how the blazing fire would be a comfort to his blasted leg.

"Why can't you just _call_," John complained as he settled himself, "I was busy!"

"Yes, I know. With a little lady called _Mariel_." Mycroft mustered a smile on her name, looking at John over his giant ego.

"How do you...never mind." Mycroft smiled, a real smile. "You don't think I've stopped keeping up with the clinical doctor John Watson?"

"Well I wish you wouldn't," John huffed.

"You are displeased," Mycroft said calmly as he handed a cup of tea to John from the near by tray before pouring one for himself.

"I am _bloody_ _upset_!"

"I can see _that." _

"I am upset with _you,_ Mycroft."

"For tearing you away from your peaceful evening walk? Did it calm your tremor?" John glared at Mycroft, "Have your intern text it to you." Mycroft's battle smile slowly crept across his pale face, balanced with the flickering fire light made John shiver in his cable knit sweater.

"My assistant has more important matters to attend to. I invited you here to inquire about your health. And," Mycroft's true grouchiness appeared as he stared at John over his tea, "I think you may be interested in some unveiled evidence my men have come across."

"You don't mean...evidence regarding-" John cleared his throat, physically unable to say _his_ name made him embarrassed.

"Yes, regarding my late brother."

"You don't think-" John stammered, "he's _alive?"_

"I did tell you once, John, that if anyone could fool me, it would be my brother."

"I know, but, _how?_ _I _was there, _I _saw the blood, _his_ blood, _I_ watched him," John's voice cracked and he took a deep breath before quietly saying, "I saw him die."

"John, what we've been able to unravel is that Sherlock isn't a fake. Moriarty was real." John's face snapped back to composure as he met Mycroft's eyes, "Yes I know! I've been saying that for three years!"

"John, we've found out that Moriarty had control over three gunmen with specific jobs to carry out, in the case that Sherlock did _not _jump."

"What do you mean?"

"Three gunmen. Three people who revolved their lives around Sherlock, who believed in him."

"You mean, a gunman was pointed at me? At the hospital?"

"Yes, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade."

John set down his abandoned tea and brought his hands up to his face.


	4. Chapter 4

~Hello~ Thank you so much for reading. This is my first multi-chapter fic and I have no idea where its going! I just keep wanting to write more scenes with more Mycroft and Mariel's backstory. Don't worry, it will have a happy ending ! Please do not be afraid to comment I would love it and thank you so much for reading hopefully I will type like mad and upload more soon~

* * *

When Mariel reached the flat she was thoroughly drenched. Mrs Hudson ushered her inside, cooing over her sopping coat and hat and cursing John's negligence. Mariel soothed Mrs. Hudson's fury with the story of the black car and John's obvious importance to the government. Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips, a worried look in her red rimmed eyes and said she'd make them a cup of tea.

John slammed the door and barged up the stairs during their second cup. He barely greeted them and made for Sherlock's room. Mrs. Hudson, alarmed, set her cup down and followed John down the hall, "John? Is everything alright?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, everything is not alright." John was digging through Sherlock's dresser drawers and throwing the contents on the bed.

"Would you like some tea?" She asked meekly.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John gritted through his teeth.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson's hands were shaking and tears threatened to fall from her violet eyes when she came back to the living room. Mariel set her cup down and rushed over to her, "Mrs. Hudson what's the matter? What's with John?"

"He hasn't gone into Sherlock's room since...," she trailed off, looking through the cold fireplace to the past.

"Since what?"

"Since Sherlock...since Sherlock committed suicide."

"_HE WAS MURDERED_," John commanded from across the flat. Mrs. Hudson collapsed into Sherlock's old chair, her hands covering her face.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Mariel knelt down and checked her pulse. John appeared from the hall, a small leather book in his hand.

"He was murdered, I was right all _along_. And now I have the proof and I can tell everyone, I can tell Anderson and-"

"John."

"-Donovan can kiss my ass-

"John."

"-Lestrade will have to investigate-

"_John! Who is Sherlock?"_

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson sighed through her hands.

Late into the night, long after Mrs. Hudson retired to her bedroom with a strong drink, John felt how exhausted he was. Mariel built him up a fire and was in the kitchen mixing up something to eat, despite John's insistence that he was not hungry. He was just really, really, tired.

"Nonsense. We both missed dinner and you had a trying day. It'll only take a minute." So John sat and mused on Mycroft's words. _I knew it, I knew it all along._

"I made some sandwiches."

"Marvelous, I'm famished." Mariel looked down at John with a knowing smile as she set the plate between them. John took big bites and devoured three as Mariel thoughtfully nibbled on hers.

"John, I'd never impose on your privacy, but I think I deserve some answers." John's blue eyes flitted to her brown ones, she saw an apology hiding behind his; they always looked at her kindly, and he in turn appreciated her heavy lids and the dark coffee color of hers, though at the moment they were furrowed in concern.

"Of course, I have let it go too long as it is. Its just, so very _hard_ to even say his name." Mariel waited patiently. "When I met Sherlock, when we became flat mates, I had just got back from war. I was having nightmares and was out of money. Sherlock...he...rented me a room...and...," John dropped his head to his knees. Mariel breathed, "oh, John," and held his head to her chest. "Oh, John, its so hard to lose someone, I know, but they always remain in your heart."

"That's just it," John whispered through her jumper, "I don't believe he's gone."

"What do you mean?" She leaned away.

"I don't think he's dead."

"But you said he was murdered."

"I know, its just that after talking to Mycroft today I think there may be a chance. He said if anyone could do it, he could."

"Who's Mycroft?"

"The British Government," he chuckled.

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Mariel's voice was hard, she turned from John and sat across from him, staring into the fire.

"I'm sorry, he's Sherlock's older brother. He's basically a pain in my ass, but, he has his good points too. Sherlock was, still is, the world's only consulting detective. We used to help the police solve cases until..." Mariel's attention focused back on him, "until Moriarty," John said his name with a snarl, a hidden anger that Mariel never thought him capable of.

"Who's Moriarty?"

"Nevermind. You should head home, its getting late."

"It's practically early. I think I should stay with you."

"I'm fine-" John emphasized.

"As a working doctor, I would advise you stay under my supervision until I deem you fit," she grinned at him with her perfect smile and knowing brown eyes. "Alright, I surrender," John smiled back.


	5. Chapter 5

So this chapter is a little backstory on John and Mariel's relationship and for some reason I love Mycroft picking John up all the time. Again, I just have a general idea where this story is going, these new scenes just keep coming. Thank you so much for reading, as always any feedback is good in my opinion~E

* * *

Mariel tried to clear her mind but long after John's breathing descended slow and rhythmically her thoughts kept running to_ Moriarty, murder, Sherlock_. When they met a year ago she knew John's terrible grief. Before they met, or rather were introduced, she knew about Sherlock.

Lestrade was her cousin and phoned her one day with a medical question about a case. She was staying in the guest house on her parent's land, far out in the country. Most days she spent in the local clinic treating sprains, cuts, and flu outbreaks. In her heart she knew she was helping people. She also knew she was avoiding the repercussions of her salty affair in the city that ransacked her of all good sense. When Lestrade asked her to come back and help him with a puzzling case she knew she had to leave the comforting silence, rain on the window, and the fireplace eventually. And, he said he had someone he wanted her to meet.

What John didn't know is that Sherlock didn't just leave him empty and listless, other people were concerned about his prolonged scowls and sleepless nights. When he could, Lestrade would invite him out for a pint or to look over a case (_with fresh eyes, _he said) and sometimes John would actually show up, twenty minutes late, unshaved and generally disheveled.

Two years, and John stayed the same. When Mrs. Hudson finally needed rent from him he just rolled over and stuffed a pillow around his head. Mrs. Hudson drew back the curtains, letting in the dusty sunlight and puttered about the room collecting old mugs of tea and half-eaten toast. She gently scolded him about his mess, comparing it to Sherlock's. John groaned and growled out, "call Mycroft. He owes me."

Mycroft did, solemnly, write out all John's checks. Once him and Mrs. Hudson started discussing John, it didn't take long for Lestrade to step in. Often he would "pop" by when Mycroft did and force John to talk to them. They mostly just got curt sarcasms but the more Mycroft and Lestrade spent talking in Sherlock's flat they grew to like each other, they agreed that at least John didn't have to sit in the flat alone. When Lestrade happened to mention his single, intelligent cousin, Mrs. Hudson pushed him to set her up with John. _He needs someone new, to help him heal, he needs a distraction, he needs to move on._

Mariel only knew so much as Lestrade told her, that John needed a companion, that he watched his friend unravel until his end, watched him bleed in the street. Mariel was moved by his story, she agreed to the plan to act like she just got to town to visit her cousin and Lestrade had randomly forced John to leave his flat for the pub. _At least he didn't have to use his gun_, Lestrade thought and was pleased when they hit it off. She was so sweet, charming him with her smile and smart humor. Lestrade watched John relax, let himself laugh and joke a little in the warm pub. When they finished their drinks John invited them both back to his place for tea, but Lestrade declined, he had to work in the morning, so he dropped them off at Baker Street and went home. Mariel stayed. She had been there ever since. Lestrade didn't tell her about Moriarty.

_We are good together,_ she thought, her and John, even though he was quiet for days and refused to buy milk or eat sometimes and stayed all night by the fire reading or staring out the window. She was happy making him tea and helping Mrs. Hudson can jam and preserves. She didn't even mind typing up Lestrade's paperwork and was starting to muse about working at a clinic again.

Nine months flew by and John had not done more than kiss her cheek but she didn't mind. At first she hoped he would want to kiss her, but she soon became accustomed to their boundaries. It wasn't likely anyway that he would bounce into bed with her, with his limp and after watching his best friend fall. Now, after tonights outburst she feared that Sherlock had been more to John than a friend and partner in crime. She dreaded the idea that propelled itself into her sleepy brain, _John was _in love _with Sherlock._

* * *

"John, can I talk to you?"

"Mhhm," he didn't look away from the computer screen. _Tap-tap-tap._

"Look, you've been on that all day and this is important."

He turned to her with a look of concern and apology, "what is it?"

"Its my dad, he had a heart attack."

"Oh god, is he alright?"

"Yes, he's fine now and resting at the hospitable. But I'm taking the train out there tonight. I think I should be with him."

"Of course."

"And I'm not coming back."

"Sorry, what?"

"I'm going back to my parents. They need me to look after them." John was quiet. "Come with me?"

"I'm sorry Mariel...I can't."

"It's a big place, there's lots of room in the guest house and the landscape is beautiful, there's lots of fresh air-"

"I can't." He wouldn't say more.

"Good bye, John."

* * *

John was furiously annoyed with himself. He took it out on his bad leg by hurriedly making his usual way to the pub. He was so annoyed with himself he was trying to distance himself from himself as much as possible. _He couldn't think of a damn thing to say to her._ _And now she was gone._

Before he rounded the corner he was blocked by a shiny black car. _Not again. _Mycroft waited in the spacious back seat and the driver took off before John could settle himself.

"I think you may be right, John," Mycroft didn't wait to say as he looked at his watch.

"About Sherlock's murder?"

"No, about Sherlock being _alive_," Mycroft smiled. John sensed the car was driving very fast.

"How did you-"

"Surveillance sighted a man that is strikingly similar." Mycroft handed him a large color photo of the back of a man with dark curls and a long black coat.

"But, how?" John handed the photo back.

"I need you," Mycroft intensified his eye contact. It made John bristle.

"You need me," John scoffed, "to do what, exactly?"

"I need your help reigning him in."

"No. What?" John scrunched up his face in confusion. "Even if it is him, which it bloody well may not be, how would we even _begin_ to find _Sherlock_?"

"Bait, John, the perfect bait." A knowing smile creeped across his face.

"No-Mycroft," but the car stopped abruptly in front of a dark and rather smelly alley and John was practically hurled out of the car by the muscled driver. Mycroft grinned expectantly as the door was slammed shut and John was left on the dirtiest street in London.

"God damn," John regretted leaving his place without his handgun. "Bloody Mycroft," he avoided the glares from the street loiters and limped off in what he hoped would be in the direction of a major road and a cab. A rough voice approached him, _hey, man_ and John saw the distinct flick of a four inch blade. "You don't want to do that," John managed to croak out and the broad man sneered, _why not? _

A hiss, a swirl of black fabric and the clang of the knife hitting the pavement of the street. The man was on his back, groaning and holding his face. The black car swirled around and the back door flew open, "get in, John!"

"We lost him," Mycroft was furiously texting on his phone, "we lost him!"


	6. Chapter 6

Last chapter! Although, I had a fleeting fancy that I may write a sexy epilogue~Thank you thank you for reading and reviewing I can't say how much it means to me,

E

* * *

"Can you never do that again," John said as he scooted into the car.

"But we need Sherlock to come in, John," Mycroft said cooly.

"No. Take me home."

"I'm sorry John, but-"

"Mycroft! take me back to my flat right bloody now," John fumed.

"Fine," Mycroft snarled under a layer of compromise, "I'll just leave my brother to you, no matter what state of malnutrition, or drugs, or injury, to you." John winced at every emphasis on Sherlock's hypothetical conditions.

"Yes, thank you, I am a doctor if you remember," John glared at the drops starting to come down outside. "He knows we know, now."

Mycroft looked at John thoughtfully, "yes, he has most likely known about my investigation since the beginning. It wasn't until my name was given on a flight coming from Aruba, that _I_ unfortunately did not get to take."

"Aruba?"

"It seems our fair skinned friend wanted to go sun bathing." Mycroft opened up a secret panel in the car and pulled out a tumblr and a clear bottle of dark amber colored liquid.

"You've got a bar in here?" John inquired.

"I'm celebrating."

"Celebrating what, exactly?"

Mycroft watched the heavy liquid swirl through the crystal before he raised it, "to the Holmes."

* * *

When John was dropped off at the flat the night was well on its journey to morning. John just wanted to crawl into bed and try to forget a somehow worse evening to the one he originally planned. After he shrugged off his coat his stomach painfully reminded him that he hadn't eaten since Mariel's sandwiches the night before. He had spent all morning and afternoon on the laptop typing up old notes from after the fall, hoping to find something he missed. Now his stomach was crabby and he assured it he would make it a cup of tea and a plate of toast.

John unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt and slunk into his leather chair. The rain started to come down heavier, making streams down the tall windows, closing off the outside world. John closed his eyes and let his head roll back. He willed his chilled bones to get up and make up the fire but his limbs did not respond. He remembered the fireplace was piled with ash when he left for the evening and it made him regret not cleaning it out earlier. He opened his eyes and was instantly puzzled: the fireplace was clean and logs were set up for a new one. John pursed his lips and peered around the room. It was silent except for the rain on the window and the room was as dusty and cluttered as usual. _Perhaps Mrs. Hudson_ _cleared it out,_ he told himself to dispel any crazier ideas he was starting to get.

He groaned as he got up from his chair, his leg was sore, his shoulder was sore, his heart was sore. After he put the kettle on he got out a plate and a few crusty pieces of bread which he toasted and slathered a generous amount of butter and jam on. The desk was filled with papers and the table was covered in dirty dishes so he settled himself in his chair with his cup on the side table and his toast in his lap. He devoured a piece of toast and half his tea when he noticed something was very different. The fire was crackling happily.

"H-Hello?" John mumbled through a mouthful. Just the rain and the fire answered with their natural soothing. John frowned. He set down his toast, brushed crumbs off his face and said a little louder, "who's there?" Still just the running rain. John ran to Sherlock's room and opened the door. It was just as it was after Mrs. Hudson tidied up his angry tantrum. The room still held Sherlock's impeccably neat appearance. The light gray bed spread was neatly tucked in, the white curtains closed across the pale dawn gave the room a holy glow. The walls were bare of pictures, the dresser was bare of any knick knacks, _just like Sherlock, no sentimentality._

John closed the door and leaned his aching head heavily against it. _Why did I think he would be in there? _He turned and leaned his back against the wall and rubbed his eyes with a dry knuckle. _I must be more tired than I thought. I must have forgotten that I cleaned out the ashes and I forgot I made up a fire and I forgot that Sherlock...that Sherlock..._

John tried to shake the burning tears that threatened to fall and took in a deep breath. He turned to walk back to the living room, adamant on finishing his meal and going to bed. What he heard then made the rain pause mid-stream and the fire hold its breath. The sweetest, most accurate C-scale emanated from acoustic strings.

John slowly walked towards the living room and peeked around the corner. A head of erratic dark curls faced him. Thin shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh as the violin was carefully set on a pile of papers. Pale, shallow skin shone dully in the fire light as the ghost from John's dreams became aware of his presence. Piercing blue eyes spun and met his, "hello, John."

John's aching head went from throbbing to white hot heat. He rushed at Sherlock across the room and shoved him hard against the windows. He held Sherlock there with his forearm securely pressed against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock resisted and struggled against John's arm. With his other hand John wrapped his experienced hand around Sherlock's thin neck. Sherlock swallowed, dull eyes that once were bright and darting stared into John's with resignation and defeat. John looked deeper into their swirling blackness, looking for the spark of a newborn universe, for the coldness of isolating genius, or for anything that would separate this vision from all the nights half-asleep.

"J-" Sherlock started to say but John clamped his hand on Sherlock's mouth roughly, he held Sherlock still with his arm.

"Don't. Just, don't," John relaxed into Sherlock and rested his head on Sherlock's heavily rising chest, "don't speak, don't move, don't even breathe just stay right where you are." Sherlock complied and eased into John. Swiftly John gripped Sherlock's bony shoulders and pulled him away from the cold windows and stuffed him into Sherlock's chair by the fire. John leaned on the arm rests, towering over him. He scrutinized every bit of Sherlock's face from the gray under his eyes to his chapped lips and a three day old bruise on his cheek.

"John, I'm sorry-"

"Don't you ever, ever do that to me again."

"I can explain-"

"Sherlock!" John growled a mere centimeter from Sherlock's face. John seethed with anger, "don't you ever fucking do that again. Don't you ever fucking keep secrets from me again don't you ever," Sherlock's breath was quick and hot on John's lips, "die without me again." John let go and fell into Sherlock's lap. Sherlock took John into his embrace as he sharply took John's words into his lungs and gasped for another breath against John's lips. John pressed his hands against Sherlock's face and neck twisting his fingers in Sherlock's unkempt waves and eased into Sherlock's mouth with eager, demanding kisses. Sherlock held John with one long slender hand flat against his back and the other on his hip. What John didn't know was that he was afraid to move a finger because he became suddenly aware that this could be a recurring dream, or by a small chance, it could be reality.

John felt Sherlock trembling beneath him, "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"I'm perfectly fine." He smiled weekly up at John.

"Sherlock, you're trembling." John studied the striking face that was taunter than he remembered, the tendrils that hung low on his neck and over his ears lacked an arrogant bounce, beneath his worn, dingy white button down his shoulders shivered and his collarbones popped out.

"I'm just cold, John, that's all, I'm perfectly fine, really."

"Right." John stared at Sherlock even harder. The sun was unusually daring that morning and as the fire died the sun washed a warm yellow glow over them. John gently grabbed Sherlock's chin and turned his face towards the light, "Sherlock, who punched you in the face?" John winced as he catalogued the deep bruising along Sherlock's left cheekbone.

"No one. An accident."

"_That_ was not an accident. That was a very hard fist." John turned Sherlock's face back to him, "and I intend to give him one in the solar plexus."

"I was just...in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Maybe, across town?" John asked with a smirk. Sherlock was just sullen silence.

"You don't have to tell me everything, if you don't want to," John looked warmly into Sherlock's eyes, "I'm not going to tell you everything either." Sherlock nodded his head. John leaned in and cupped his cheek and kissed him again, softer now.


End file.
